


of car troubles and coffee

by whatliesabove



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:44:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatliesabove/pseuds/whatliesabove
Summary: "When Jim Hopper’s face comes into view, his large body blocking the snow from spilling into her window, she realizes she is not, in fact, seeing things."Joyce and a young Jonathan are stuck during a snowstorm when her car dies. A long-lost Jim Hopper happens to drive past the scene.





	of car troubles and coffee

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into writing for Stranger Things, but I've been admiring all of your wonderful Jopper works from the sidelines for a while and I've finally caved and decided to join in. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy, and I'd love to hear what you think! Happy Holidays to all who celebrate!!
> 
> You can also find this on my tumblr, under the same name.

Joyce Byers sighs, swears at her stupid little car, and gives the steering wheel a small slap for good measure. It needs to be fixed; she knows this, has known it’s been in need of a check up for a while now but she hasn’t had the time or money to act upon that knowledge. It’s gotten her this far though, and she didn’t expect for it to die on Christmas Eve. In the middle of a snow storm, no less.

Turning around, she looks back at her son. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” she says softly, reaching back to rub Jonathan’s thin, jean-clad knee.

The four year old gives a small nod, but he’s nervous. She can see it in his face.

“We’ll get out of here soon,” she promises, even if it’s a promise she’s not sure she should make.

They’re not too far from the house, but it’s definitely too cold for her to even think about taking Jonathan outside for an extended period of time. He has a hat but it’s not warm enough for this, and neither is his jacket.

Once she’s content that Jonathan will be okay for the time being, she swivels back in her seat and presses at the bridge of her nose, eyes falling closed. At least she’d managed to swerve a little to the side before the car completely crapped out on her; it gave a few warning noises, some clicking and banging that absolutely shouldn’t have been happening, and she had the forethought to pull over to check it out.

Of course she doesn’t know  _what_ to check out, and she’s afraid if she turns the car off it won’t turn back on. They need the heat that’s still blowing fairly decently from the vents, so she vetoes any idea that involves taking that chance.

Rummaging in the glove compartment, Joyce finds a few pieces of scrap paper and an old pen. She tries it out on one of the corners and grins to herself when it actually works, and then passes them back to her son.

“Here,” she says, handing him the booklet the registration comes in too. She took that out, doesn’t want him scribbling on it, but figures it’ll be easier to draw with something sturdy beneath the paper. “Why don’t you draw some pretty pictures while mommy figures out what we’re going to do, okay?”

Jonathan nods, grasping at the pen. “Okay.”

Stretching a little further, she manages to ruffle his hair. He doesn’t say much else, just goes to work making a bunch of squiggles across the paper, and Joyce exhales. She really has to figure out what she’s going to do. She can’t leave Jonathan in the car to go find some help, and she doesn’t want to take him with her. It’s dark and frigid, likely icy, and she has no idea how far she’d have to go to actually find someone this late on Christmas Eve.

If it’s the only option she supposes she  _will_ , but she hopes it doesn’t come to that. She doesn’t want him sick.

She rubs her hands together for some more warmth. Her gloves are somewhere in the house; they appear to have vanished after a load of laundry and she’s been too busy with other things to worry about finding them or getting a new pair.

Now, with icicles where her fingers should be, she wishes she’d made the time.

“Mommy?” Jonathan calls a while later.

Joyce looks over her shoulder. “You done with your drawing, baby?”

Her boy shakes his head. “Almost,” he says, looking down at the paper covered in shapes and swirls before lifting his eyes back to her. “It’s cold.”

She hadn’t noticed, but now that Jonathan’s mentioned it it does feel a bit cooler than it did before. When she exhales she can see her breath in front of her, which is not a good sign. Extending her arm, she hovers her open palm above the vents and waits for heat that doesn’t come. It’s started to blow out cool air instead and she grumbles a low expletive.

Turning off the heat, she slumps into the chair for a moment. It’ll only get cooler, but she assumes it’ll slow a bit now without her car blowing out cold air.

Without much of a second thought she peels out of her jacket and turns back to Jonathan. “Here, honey,” she says, draping it over his small body. “Keep this on top of you like a blanket and you should warm up.”

His little face scrunches. “But you?”

“Oh, I’m okay.” She makes a show of stretching out her arms, rubbing at her long sleeved sweater. “See? This keeps me plenty warm.”

Jonathan doesn’t look placated, and she’s reminded once more how much older he is than his four years. Far too aware for his own good, and far too sweet. She’s the mom; she worries about him, but she forgets that he sometimes worries about her too.

Once she’s convinced him, she watches with a small smile as he snuggles into her jacket, poking one hand out from the bottom to continue working on his drawing. She laughs at that, the sound welcome in such a shitty situation.

* * *

She’s not sure how much time passes (she turned the car off a while ago, figured wasting gas was unnecessary now that they don’t need the heat) before she sees a flash of lights come up the road behind her. It comes to a slow stop behind her car before she even has a chance to open the door and flag them down for help.

A figure emerges from what looks like a truck now that it’s closer, and Joyce rolls her window down instead, thinking better of going outside in nothing but her sweater. As they come closer, she blinks through the snowy haze, thinks it’s just her impaired vision making her see things.

“Joyce?”

When Jim Hopper’s face comes into view, his large body blocking the snow from spilling into her window, she realizes she is not, in fact, seeing things. She hasn’t seen him in… years, really, not since he went off to Vietnam and vanished to the big city.

“Hop?” she croaks a little, her teeth chattering. “What are you—what are you doing here?”

Arms crossed over his chest, he scoffs. “I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing stopped out here? A blizzard’s coming.”

She doesn’t tell him she thinks it’s already arrived.

“Really? I had no idea,” she says, voice laced with sarcasm. “I didn’t stop on  _purpose_. Car broke down.”

Jim does a quick once over of the car and then nods. “This old thing’s always been a beater.” When he looks at her again, his brows wrinkle. “Where the hell’s your jacket? It’s freezing.”

Again she gets the urge to go right back at him,  _wow I hadn’t noticed_ , but she bites her tongue. It’s not his fault she’s stuck out here and in a horrible mood.

Nodding to the backseat, she waits for him to peer into the window and understand why she’s not wearing her jacket. Instead, it’s still draped around Jonathan, who’s somehow managed to fall asleep in his car seat.

“Oh,” he breathes, his voice softer. “Well, come on then.”

Her eyes widen as she curls her arms closer into her chest. “I’m sorry?”

“Come on,” he repeats, pointing back to his truck. Snow flurries land on his face, get stuck in his beard. “You can’t stay out here, you’ll get hypothermia.”

He has a point.

“I’ll drive you back to your place,” Hopper continues, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Now can we please go, my face isn’t accustomed to being turned into ice.”

Joyce grumbles a bit but relents, leans back and rubs her son’s leg to wake him up. “Jonathan,” she says quietly, waiting for his eyes to flutter open. “Hi, sleepyhead. We’re gonna go home, okay?”

“Car fixed?”

“Uh, no, sweetie. But my friend here is going to drive us,” she tells him, encouraging Jonathan to look out the window and see Hopper. “Unbuckle your seatbelt and I’ll come take you out.”

When she steps out of the car her entire body’s hit with a wall of cold air, her flimsy sweater doing absolutely nothing to brace her for the impact. Shoulders hiked nearly to her ears, she wraps her arms around her chest again as she sidles up to the back door. As she opens it, she feels something hit her back and turns to find Hopper draping his own coat over her shoulders.

“Hop—”

“You’ve been out here for god knows how long, Joyce. Take the jacket.”

She’s too preoccupied with the sudden warmth the furry interior of the jacket provides her to argue, and so she just offers a small smile and goes back to the task at hand. Pulling Jonathan from the back, she makes sure her jacket is still wrapped around his body as she hugs him to her chest.

Hopper opens the back door for her to put Jonathan in, and she’s only just turned around to comment about his car seat when she notices Hopper’s not behind her anymore. He comes back up a minute later, holding the boy’s seat in his arms. She gives him a grateful smile. Once Jonathan’s secured, she closes the door and obliges when Hop opens the front door and ushers her into the passenger seat.

“What about my car?”

“Oh. We’ll get it tomorrow.” She’s quiet, chewing on her nail, and he sighs. “Nothing we can do with it tonight in this weather.”

Joyce nods an acceptance, and the rest of the car ride is silent save for his windshield wipers going full speed.

* * *

It takes longer than anticipated to get back to the Byers residence, what with the snow getting worse and the roads having yet to be plowed. Everywhere is icy and covered in either snow or slush, and so Hopper had to drive extra slow. Especially with other people in the car.

When they finally pull into the front, Lonnie’s car is nowhere to be found. Not that she’s surprised.

“Shouldn’t there be a husband around here?” Hopper asks, and she doesn’t bother hiding the eye roll.

“He’s away on business.”

It’s a lie, but she has no interest in delving into how she has no idea where Lonnie is, but that he’s probably either drunk or gambling away their money. Instead, she pushes the door open and braves the cold to carry Jonathan from the back.

Stopping beside the driver’s door, she looks at her old friend. “Thanks, Hop,” she breathes, her voice a little louder to be heard over the whistles of the wind.

He, unsurprisingly, waves her off with a grunt. “Couldn’t leave you stranded on the side of the road.”

Joyce begins to walk towards the front steps, but then turns back. “Hey, why don’t you—why don’t you come inside?”

“What?”

“Yeah, come inside,” she repeats, more sure of herself. “It’s freezing, this snow is making it hard to see five feet in front of you, and you  _did_ just save us from a night in my car. I’ll make hot chocolate.”

“That’s really all right…”

Joyce shakes her head, cradles Jonathan’s to her chest to keep his ears warm. “Turn the car off and come inside, Hop. I won’t let you drive into a blizzard.”

He blinks. “We were just driving in a blizzard, you know.”

“Don’t be smart.”

When he doesn’t respond right away she takes matters into her own hands, opens his door from the outside. The snow immediately piles inside, slaps him against his exposed side, and he gasps at the contact.

“Christ, okay, okay,” he mutters, turning the car off and stepping out. She smirks, proud, before she realizes just how cold she is and visibly starts shivering. “Jesus, Joyce, you’re shaking. Let’s go.”

He puts his hand on her back and guides her up the stairs, waits behind her while she opens the door. She leaves it open as she stumbles inside, places Jonathan on the couch and focuses on warming him up. This leaves Hopper in the open doorway, so he takes it upon himself to close it and take his boots off, kicking them onto the carpet.

“Stay here, baby, I’ll go get your pajamas.”

And with that she’s gone, disappeared somewhere down the hall. Jonathan sits on the couch, still bundled in Joyce’s wet coat, legs swinging where they don’t quite reach the floor just yet.

Hopper shifts uncomfortably on his feet for a moment, but then he notices the boy staring at him.

“Hi,” he says, because that’s probably good enough. But her son doesn’t stop staring, instead continues to blink up at him. He hasn’t met Jonathan before; he knew Joyce had a kid, heard the rumblings in town the last time he showed up, but he had yet to see him. Until now, obviously. “You’re Jonathan.”

Hearing his name perks him up, and he nods. “Uh huh. What’s your name?”

“Ho—Jim. My name’s Jim.” He doesn’t need a four year old calling him Hopper. Not that this kid will call him anything.

“You’re mommy’s friend?”

That’s a question, isn’t it. “Yeah,” he decides, finally moving further into the house. It looks like Joyce and nothing like Lonnie; doesn’t even look like the man lives here at all. “We’re old friends.”

Jonathan squints. “You don’t look old.”

That gets a full bellied laugh out of him. “Well thanks, kid,” Hop says with a grin. When Jonathan gets a chill, shakes a little, Hopper looks around for Joyce. She’s still in one of the other rooms, and he sighs. “Let’s take this wet jacket off you, okay?”

Hesitantly, he steps up and peels the damp coat from Jonathan’s body and drapes it over the arm of the couch. That seems to help a little at least, now that the cold fabric isn’t pressing against his body.

Joyce returns a minute later with a pair of long john pajamas and fuzzy socks in her arms. “Here we go,” she says softly. Hopper seems confused as to why she’s stripping her son in the living room, and she turns to face him. “This is where the fire place is. It’s warmer than his room right now.”

He nods as if he understands, and she sees him hovering from the corner of her eye before he finally sits down.

“Come on, sweetheart. Time for bed,” she says once they’re done, hoisting Jonathan onto her hip. “Say goodnight to Hop.”

Jonathan smiles. “Night, Hop.”

Hopper laughs. “Goodnight, kid.”

“I’ll be right back,” Joyce says quickly before disappearing once again.

* * *

When Joyce comes back from the kitchen she hands him a mug of hot chocolate. She advises him that it’s hot as if he’s never had the beverage before in his life, and then takes a seat on the couch, legs tucked beneath her.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, immediately raising it to his lips.

“It’s  _hot_ ,” she repeats. “I reminded you to be funny but apparently it was necessary.”

Hopper grumbles but she can see there’s no real anger in his face.

“So,” she says, leaning deeper into the couch, “you never did answer my question.”

He turns to her from his spot in the recliner. “Probably for good reason.” He sighs when she quirks a brow, gives him a look. “What was the question?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I grew up here.”

“Stop being funny. You haven’t been back to Hawkins in years,” she states matter-of-factly, taking a sip of hot chocolate. “You’re too busy being a big shot in the city, so what brought you back here?”

He doesn’t respond for a few minutes. “You’d think you’d be nicer to the man who saved your life.”

“Jim.”

“My mother,” he finally grinds out, knuckles whiting against the handle of the mug. “She’s sick. Don’t know how much longer she has, so here I am.”

Joyce’s eyes widen, mouth open in surprise. Her features soften, and she reaches over and places a hand on his forearm. “Oh, Hop, I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“No one does. She doesn’t want people fussing over her,” he tells her. A rueful smile curls at his mouth. “Except us, of course.”

Hopper’s mother has always been kind to her, back in high school when she was one of her son’s close friends, and even in recent years when she’s been the talk of the town for all the wrong reasons. Getting pregnant out of wedlock, marrying Lonnie and then immediately falling to the bottom of his list, behind all of his addictions and suspected girlfriends. His mother never looked at her any differently; she’s always been a kind woman.

“She’s a wonderful woman,” she says.

He hums a noncommittal response, but she knows he agrees.

“What about you, Horowitz?” Hopper turns the question on her, knowing full well she’s no longer a Horowitz. “How’s the domestic life?”

If she didn’t know he’s been too far removed to truly know anything that’s going on, if she didn’t know him, she’d think he was being sarcastic or trying to be nasty. Despite years of no contact, she knows the kind of man he is, the kind of friend. She’d even venture to say they’re still friends.

“Look around,” she says with a sardonic little huff. “Does it  _look_ domestic?”

“Lonnie still… Lonnie?”

“That means something different to you than it does to me,” Joyce points out, readjusting her position so only one leg rests beneath her, the other curled into her chest. “I  _liked_ Lonnie; he was different before… before all of this.”

“And I thought he was a scumbag back then too,” Hop finishes for her. “Okay, so is Lonnie still how _I_  remember him?”

She considers lying, or making a sarcastic comment, but instead she just sighs. She’s so tired of covering for him.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice sincere. “I am, Joyce. I might’ve hated him, might still hate him, but you deserve better.”

Her lips curl at the edges as her gaze trails down to her lap. “Thanks,” she murmurs. “I'm—I’m going to do my best to make it work.”

“But why? You could do so much better.”

“I have to try.”

Bottom lip worrying between her teeth, she stays silent, avoids eye contact. She doesn’t have to be watching him to know when he connects the dots. A small exhale escapes his lips, a quiet  _oh_.

“I uh… well, congrats, Joyce,” he says.

When she finally looks up at him, she doesn’t see the pity she was expecting. For that she’s grateful, and she offers a soft smile.

She may regret Lonnie, but she’d never regret her children.

The wind howls outside and she twists a little, cranes her neck to look out the window. “It’s still going,” she comments. Everything’s white now; her entire front yard, the roads, her porch. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere, bud.”

Hopper snorts. “This is nothing.”

“I wouldn’t let you drive before, what makes you think I’ll let you leave in this?” she asks incredulously, a brow raised pointedly at him.

“Joyce, really…”

“Fancy snow-ready truck or not, I’m not really in the mood to hear about you driving into a tree. It’d ruin Christmas.”

He gives an amused huff. “I’m so glad you’re concerned about my well-being.”

“Give me your mug, I’ll make another batch,” she says, ignoring his comment. “And I’ll bring some blankets to set up on the couch for you.”

“And if Lonnie comes back and finds me on the couch?”

A sad shadow casts over her face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “He won’t.” Then she smiles, and his chest constricts. “Besides, you’d be able to take him if need be.”

* * *

In the morning Hopper wakes to the smell of coffee. His arm is dangling from the couch, fingers brushing the carpet, and his face is squished into the pillow. He almost forgets where he is until he peels his eyes open and finds Joyce’s four year old leaning against the coffee table, staring at him.

He startles a little, and Jonathan laughs.

“Hi, kid,” he grumbles, voice raspy with sleep as he blinks away the fatigue.

Joyce’s chuckle floats in from the kitchen. “I said to wake Hop up, Jonathan, not scare him.”

“It was funny, Mommy. He jumped.”

She rubs her boy’s back and places a small plate of (slightly burned, but completely edible) pancakes in front of him. “Eat your breakfast, honey.” Turning to look down at Hopper, she grins. “There are pancakes on the table for you too.”

“Thanks.”

“And coffee,” she adds, laughing when he immediately perks up and moves to stand. “Of course.”

He trails behind her and they both take a seat at the kitchen table, mugs of coffee clutched in their hands. Joyce lets the warmth seep into her chilled fingers; the fire place is going again, but it takes a while to heat the whole house.

“The storm stopped,” Joyce says, looking past him and out the front. “You should be able to get back on the roads.”

Hopper nods. “I could’ve last night too, you know,” he teases.

“Forgive me for wanting to avoid a fatality on Christmas.”

His face softens. “I appreciate it, Joyce,” he says then, reaching over to pat her hand briefly.

“It might’ve been a while, but I uh—I never stopped thinking we were still friends." 

Her voice is quiet, almost hesitant, as if she thinks he’ll reject the notion. Reject her, her friendship.

Hopper scrubs at his still sleep-laden face. "Shit, Joyce. I’m sorry,” he sighs, looking over at her. “I didn’t either. I didn’t write or come back, and I’m sorry for that.”

But she just shrugs. “You moved onto bigger and better things.” There’s no malice in her tone, no anger. Just acceptance. “I get it.”

“Still. We were—we were one hell of a team in high school, and I should’ve at least written or something.”

“You should have. I missed you, Hop,” she admits. “You were a shit, but you were my friend.”

“Still am, remember?” he says, and a soft smile forms on her face.

She chuckles. “Yeah, I remember. Are  _you_ going to remember when you’re back to being a big time New York cop?”

Hopper lets out a humph, pulls his lips into a line. “I deserve that,” he says. “Yeah, Joyce. I’ll actually call this time, okay? Friends do that, so I hear.”

In lieu of a reply she clinks her coffee mug with his, and the two of them finish their beverages in a comfortable silence.

When she walks him to the entryway, the time for him to get back to his mother having come, she leans against the door frame. His truck is covered in snow and she grimaces at how long that’s gonna take, but then he reminds her he has a scraper in the back and  _it’ll be snow-free in no time_.

“Merry Christmas, Jim,” she says quietly once he’s on the porch. “Safe trip back, okay?”

Nodding, he shoots her a tiny smile.

“Merry Christmas, Joyce.”


End file.
